Confused

He smelled of unpleasant things; The aged smell of mold and the acrid smell of sweat. He smelled exactly like a sweaty track suit stored away for a great length of time in some forgotten corner of the attic. Except, I think he smelled too strongly of sweat and not strongly enough of mold to be exactly that smell. More like a sweaty track suit forgotten for not quite so long in the corner of the laundry room; a week perhaps. Yes, that's it; a sweaty track suit forgotten and unwashed for a week. That was his smell.

His look was another thing entirely. He was not athletic in the least, or at least, he was no longer athletic. His hair had faded with age and reached the wispy white that only the oldest manes attain. His teeth were as few as his wrinkles were many and his eyebrows were great, bushy white pipe cleaners. I think he'd had a stroke at some point because the left side of his mouth drooped a bit beneath his bulbous cucumber nose. His hands shook around the pommel of a bird's head cane and he moved the part of his mouth that would move in a constant, silent utterance. His shoulders were humped and shaky and the rest of his body was twisted and dangerously thin.

I spoke to him and he spoke to me at the same time. "Ello gir" Which was meant to be "Hello sir" but which we could not seem to articulate. I reached out and touched the grimy glass of the mirror and started to cry.